


Onryo

by staringatstars



Category: Kubo and the Two Strings (2016)
Genre: Gen, Here There Be Spoilers, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatstars/pseuds/staringatstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Would you like them back, Kubo?</em> The circling of the paper grows wild, frantic, as though it’s under attack. <em>It would take something precious.</em> </p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	Onryo

_Kuuubooo._

Within the confines of the cave where he and his grandfather sleep, Kubo twists, restless, his expression distorting into something twisted and pained. 

_Are you lonely, Kubo?_

It’s a dream. He’s had many like it before, but none so real he can feel cool breath tickling his cheek. It drains the lingering warmth from the fire they’d put out after dinner. A harsh exhale blooms into a cloud of mist. He shivers, gripping his father’s crimson robe tightly, as though to ward off the evil dwelling in his own nightmares. 

Still, he says nothing, knowing better than to respond to the sickly sweet tones echoing through his mind. 

_You were so brave when you defeated the Moon King, so kind when you accepted him into your heart. Your parents would be so proud._

The words sting. He cries out in his sleep, too quiet to be heard, as slips of paper begin to rustle, rising from the ground to circle over their heads.

 _Would you like them back, Kubo?_ The circling of the paper grows wild, frantic, as though it’s under attack. _It would take something precious._ Suddenly, Kubo grows quiet. Across the cave, his grandfather stirs, disturbed by the sounds of paper crackling and bending over his form, but Kubo has been pulled from the waking world, drawn entirely into the gulf between mere sleep and the shadow of death creeping at its fridges. It is not a place where any who still wish to draw breath should linger. _What would you give to see them again?_

A surge of emotion burns through him, too powerful to contain in such a small body, and though he thought not a word, not a single syllable, his mind conjures an image of his sole remaining eye, the eye coveted by both his aunts and his grandfather. 

_So be it._

The Grandfather stirs, blinking awake slowly in the dim light of the sun’s first rays to find the entire cave floor covered in stern monkeys and proud samurai warriors. Close to his wrinkled hand, he finds a construction of a young woman, her long hair swaying gracefully as her fingers deftly plucked at the strings of a shamisen. 

Careful to handle her gently, the old man lifts her onto his palm, holding her closer so as to see her better, and though he cannot remember why, it suddenly feels as though he is deeply saddened by the elegant slope of her nose, by the familiar dexterity of her hands. Confused and overwhelmed, he touches his cheek to find it wet, a single tear glistening on the tip of a finger.

Kubo did not wake to his grandfather's struggle to remember why the figure held such meaning to him, nor did he wake to see the samurai swinging their swords wildly, searching for an enemy to defend him from, or the monkeys facing him, staring long and hard with a concern that filled every bend and fold of their paper bodies.

He did not wake to see at all, for the light had been stolen from his world.

 

It didn’t affect him too much. Not at first.

Though his grandfather insisted that they move closer to the other townsfolk, Kubo adamantly refused. He’d spent thirteen years running up and down that path. There was no need for sight when he knew every winding curve and turn with his body, with his soul.

Regardless of his protests, however, his grandfather kept coming up with excuses to follow him into town, to hover close behind him with his arms still at his sides, unless an unexpected dip, carved out by rainfall, or a small stone broken off from their bluff caused Kubo to trip, in which case his arms would shoot out to steady him. 

During those moments, his voice would be kind, his touch gentle, yet without the ability to see the warmth in his eyes, Kubo couldn’t help but think of the Moon King, the rampaging demon that stole his parents from him, that forced him and his mother to live their lives in fear of the dark, and spurn the man’s help, coldly yanking his arm from his grasp, though it pained him to do so.

His parents had not raised him to be cruel, not even to the man who had stolen _everything_ from them. 

Kubo cannot see the brief instant of hurt flashing across his grandfather’s weathered features, but he feels his presence, knows that though his grandfather is keeping his distance, he is never far behind.

 

For the first few days, the townspeople ask about his milky-white eye.

What happened to it? Was he hurt? 

They don’t always believe him when he claims it was stolen by a spirit, but over time, even his blindness loses its novelty. He still plays on his shamisen, still weaves wondrous, epic tales of romance and glory with his enchanted origami, and thus, topic in the village moves on to other, more pressing matters, such as whether the early storms will wash away the newly planted seeds before they can take root.

The old woman, though, she always keeps a close watch on him. 

When the children ask Kubo how he lost his eye, he always spins a new tale for them, each one more fantastic than the last, and so, they ask often, hoping each time that Kubo will pluck at the strings of his shamisen, and show them another story. 

These days, Kubo doesn’t have to return home before dark, so all his stories have endings, and all the endings are happy. Hanzo, the wandering samurai, discovered that the family he’d long thought lost was merely hiding from the Moon King’s wrath, and they reunited after his defeat, the three of them prepared to live long and happy lives together. 

The villagers loved that story the best.

Over time, Kubo’s smiles begin to wear thin, his laughter becomes tired. Devoid of the ability to see the gratitude and joy in his audience, it feels as though he is giving more and more of himself everyday, without receiving anything in return. 

Curled up on his futon, he sometimes wonders if he losing his connection to humanity, just as his aunts and grandfather had wanted. 

It’s on such a night when his sharp ears pick up on the sound of a hushed conversation outside their cave. One is speaking quickly, agitated, even frightened, and the other, with the deeper voice, is trying to calm them down, though they don’t sound much better themselves. 

Kubo, however, recognizes none of that. He hears the voices of his parents, his _deceased_ parents, and his soul trembles with rage. Had the spirits dared take the form of his parents to mock him?

If so, they would regret it. 

He rolls towards his shamisen, grabbing hold of the wooden instrument in several deft movements before stringing a cord that calls the paper to rise, to fold and crease and join into the snarling monkey standing protectively at his side, and the beetle warrior, bow raised to defend. 

“Come out,” Kubo demands of the spirits. Their conversation halts, their presence dwindling to the occasional snap of a branch underfoot, or a pebble kicked onto its side. There are footsteps in the cave, the soft padding of paws on the stone floor, followed by the louder _clink_ of armored boots scraping against the rock.

“Kubo, my son, it’s us.” The wind stops. Its owner must be standing in the entrance, with a body wide enough to block the air from the ocean from entering. It sounds like his father. 

His father is dead.

Briefly, Kubo’s control over his creations slips, and they act on instinct, the Beetle at his side releasing an arrow that flies only a short distance before quickly being cut down by a blade so sharp the air parted under the force of its swing, though which of the illusions cut it down, Kubo can't be sure. All he knows is that one of the intruders had wielded the Sword Unbreakable, and if that was the case, then there was no battle to win. 

“Please,” Kubo begs the spirits, placing the shamisen at his side, “my grandfather has done nothing wrong. I will go with you, if that’s what you want, but leave him be.” Said grandfather snorts in his sleep, brow furrowed as though dreaming.

“It’s okay, Kubo,” the being with his mother's voice whispers. “You don’t have to be afraid.” He isn’t. He is the proud son of a moon _tenshi_ and a samurai, but though he opens his mouth to say these things, a pair of furry arms wraps lovingly around his neck, holding him close. Kubo recognizes the smell. “I’m here.” 

“Mother?” It comes out so small and broken, tentative and disbelieving, that the monkey tightens her hold on him, filling his nose with the scent of wood and incense. 

His father’s hand lays heavy on Kubo’s back. “If we’d had any choice in the matter, we’d have never left you alone.”

“But I’m not alone,” Kubo admits. “I have grandfather,” his mother shifts to spot the man’s sleeping form, sparing the man a fond, wistful glance, “and the villagers. They look out for me. But even still…” The moonlight reflects off his sightless eye, ”I wanted you back.”

“Kubo,” Monkey says slowly, a single claw tracing the curve of his brow, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear as she loosened her hold to look at his face, “what happened to your eye?”

In starts and spurts, Kubo spoke of the presence that haunted his dreams, of the hope it’d offered. Thinking back, the tempting voice of the spirit or demon had very much resembled that of his aunts’. 

“I never said yes,” he insists, glancing anxiously between them, worried that they might be disappointed in him for falling so easily to the tricks of spirits, for bringing them back from the afterlife when they were finally at peace, but Hanzo only nods, giving Kubo’s hair an affectionate rustle that knocks his ponytail askew.

“We know, Kubo. And we don’t blame you, so don’t go blaming yourself.” Unable to resist a scowl, he mutters under his breath, “Something or someone’s been playing dirty.”

Monkey listened without interruption, a look of grim acceptance hardening her animal features. “It sounds as though my sisters have chosen the path of the _onryo_.” At the confusion expressed on her son’s youthful face, she clarifies, “They are vengeful spirits, obsessed with old grudges and tormenting those who carry warm blood in their veins.”

“That does sound like your sisters,” Hanzo adds glibly, sheathing his arrows. “But why resurrect us in these forms?”

“While the dead cannot truly be brought back to life, a soul can be bound to a magical construct. It is how I managed to linger in this world after my own soul was cast from my body.”

Remembering that night, a shudder wracks Kubo’s slender frame. Sensing his distress, his mother holds him closer. “You are safe now, Kubo. We will stay with you this night, if that is what you wish.”

Kubo raises his head, holding his chin high. “I wish it. Very much.”

Setting down his bow, Hanzo kneels to wrap them both in an embrace so large it could have circled around his wife and son twice over. “Then we will stay this night And tomorrow, after the sun sets,” he winks, “I think it’s about time your mother’s sisters and I had another heart-to-heart.”


End file.
